When It Alteration Finds
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: From 'Mansfield Park'. The story of what happened between Edmund getting over Mary and marrying Fanny. Edmund/Fanny, so Henry fans beware!
1. Clueless

**A/N:** I've been revisiting all the Austen novels, and am currently on Mansfield Park. I'm finding it depressing that there is such a shocking lack of MP fanfic, and even less Edmund/Fanny fic – everyone seems intent on pairing Fanny and Henry together, sadly.

I can see why people may be against E/F, and it annoys me too that he seems to rebound to her, and sees her as a choice who 'might do just as well' as Mary. Ugh – so I decided to try and write a story that would make his feelings for Fanny sympathetic – please tell me if I've succeeded!

This story will probably have around five chapters. Now let's bring on the angst and fluff!

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**When It Alteration Finds**

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_Chapter One – Clueless_

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'It is impossible,' Edmund said with a sigh, as he and Fanny proceeded with their usual walk through the park, 'that I should ever find anyone like Mary again.'

She squeezed the arm she held within hers, and he treasured the gesture of silent sympathy. There was nobody who knew him or understood him better than Fanny, and it was only natural that just as he had communicated all his hopes and feelings regarding Mary to her before, now he would communicate his futile wishes and reg– no; no regrets. When he remembered just why he had turned away from Miss Crawford, he could not regret it. Even while his heart still at times yearned for her, his head had told him that their marriage would not have been happy for long.

It was hard when he thought of Mary's sparkling dark eyes or her lively teasing or her ready wit. But he had been slowly beginning to realise that they had wanted things that were too different. He would have been pushed by her to become something he did not want to be, in order to gain the distinction she wished for, and to provide her with the elegant life in town which she desired. He would have grown miserable, and so would she.

If only she had been a little more serious on important matters – if only her upbringing had been different – what a perfect woman she would have been! Well... it was too late now. And he would never find such another; it was too much to expect anything of the kind. He had had his chance at love, and had been unlucky enough for it to go awry.

He sighed again, but then turned as he felt Fanny's concerned eyes upon him. She looked away from him with a tiny sigh of her own, and he could have kicked himself for being so selfish. Here he was constantly regaling her with his own great heartbreak when she herself was suffering under a far more grievous injury. He had been deceived in Miss Crawford's true character, but how much more taken in had she been by Mr. Crawford! He could not imagine the pain she must have gone through when she heard of his affair with Mrs. Rushworth.

He attempted to convey his contrition in words. 'My dear Fanny, I'm so sorry – I have not been thinking of you at all.'

Her gaze snapped up sharply to meet his, and her face seemed unusually pale where it would normally by now be flushed with the exercise.

'Here I am,' he continued, 'droning on about _my _problems when you have been bearing a far worse affliction without complaint.' Looking at her very seriously, he pressed the arm within his. 'I want you to know that if you ever need to talk to someone, I'm here.'

Her brow creased in what looked like confusion. 'Affliction?'

'I know you must have been cruelly disappointed by Mr. Crawford's heinous indiscretion. I would never have thought him capable of such wickedness.' He shook his head. When he had recovered from his shock on first hearing the news, he had been furious, strangely not on his sister's account, but on Fanny's. His first thought had been for her, his dear, sweet Fanny who would be heartbroken by this news. How dare Crawford use her so, and manipulate her into falling in love with him, only to dash her hopes like this? 'Abominable scoundrel!' he burst out. 'I cannot tell you what I feel on your account. He is no great loss to you, Fanny,' he continued fervently, his face grim. 'I hope and trust that you will recover and will not regret him long.'

Comprehension had dawned on her face while he had been speaking, and she now looked away in seeming agitation, her flustered state apparent in the involuntary blush which crept up her neck. 'I must tell you, Edmund,' she began, haltingly at first, but then with greater steadiness, 'I have never been at all attached to Mr. Crawford. His attentions to me at their most recent have been almost as unwelcome to me as they were at first. Although I never thought him capable of _this_, I have seen much in his behaviour at Mansfield to disturb me and make me distrust him. I cannot say that I am sorry that he no longer pursues me.'

What a glorious relief it was to hear these words! Despite all of Mr. Crawford's machinations, and despite the endeavours of everyone around her – including himself, he thought, suddenly feeling rather ashamed – to change her heart towards him, she had followed her own infallible internal guide. She had been right all along, and Mr. Crawford's behaviour had only served to justify the soundness of her judgment. He would not have liked to see Fanny wasted on such a man – she deserved far better than the likes of Mr. Crawford.

As they were entering the house, he saw her let out another involuntary sigh, her gaze distant and sad. His heart sank. She _was _still in love with the rake, but dear, brave girl that she was, she was trying to be strong for his sake, for his family's sake. 'He is no object of regret indeed,' he cried warmly, 'and I am glad that you can say as much. But, dear Fanny, I trust it will not be long before that becomes the acknowledgement of more than your reason.'

She opened her mouth to speak, but he would never know what she had been about to say for at that moment she was called to the side of her aunt, who, it seemed, could not do without her company for another minute. With one apologetic look at him she was gone to her aunt, and over tea Edmund was left to contemplate the cosy family scene he saw before him with Fanny attentive to every comfort of Lady Bertram's, soothing every despondent mood of Sir Thomas's, patiently helping her sister Susan with her needlework and tirelessly listening to and conversing gently with them all.

But then tea was over, and he had to leave for Thornton Lacey, which, being without Fanny's presence, suddenly seemed a dull and gloomy place indeed.

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If there were any clue to let Edmund know that maybe his feelings for Miss Crawford were not so incurable as he had at first thought, it was perhaps that he thought of her less and less with each passing day, and that in Fanny's company on his almost-daily visits to Mansfield, they had managed to move on to topics of conversation other than the Crawfords.

In all good ways it was like a return to the past, to their lives before the Crawfords had arrived; but the difference, Edmund finally realised, was that they were now equals. Where before he had been the teacher and mentor and Fanny the student, their exchange of ideas was now mutual. Everyday she surprised him with some remark so insightful whether in her attitude to life or in her opinions on the books and poetry they both loved, that it was brought forcibly before him that she was no longer the timid child he had always loved and protected, but rather an intelligent young woman whose outer beauty was matched only by a mind and heart equally lovely.

Where would he be, where would they all be, if not for Fanny? By taking her in as a child, they had done themselves the greatest favour. With such an example of goodness and sweetness in their home, they were able to pull themselves out of their despair and follow her lead. Where Miss Crawford would have shattered his faith in women, Fanny had kept it alive; for, as long as she was near, he would always be reminded that there was goodness and kindness in the world.

She was his cousin, his student, his teacher, his guide, his confidante, his oldest friend. He loved her more than words could say.


	2. Comprehension Dawns

**A/N:** I now present you the chapter in which Edmund finally sees the light – please review and tell me your thoughts!

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_Chapter Two – Comprehension Dawns_

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With perhaps the exception of Fanny herself, Edmund was the last to come to know that his feelings for her had, somewhere along the line, changed from a brotherly affection to something far deeper.

In the comfortable evenings at Mansfield, Sir Thomas would occasionally glance up from his newspaper to indulgently observe the two of them sitting together, engrossed in their conversation. The smallest of smiles crept across his face as he cherished what had of late become his dearest hope. From the events of the past year, he had lost his taste for promoting marriage for the sake of wealth or ambition, and had come to value soundness of principle, sweetness of temper and goodness more than anything. He was as proud of Fanny as any father could be of his daughter, and nothing would please him more than to be able to call her his daughter in truth.

Tom, sitting at the writing desk poring over estate accounts or plans for building new cottages for the tenants (tasks he had zealously applied himself to on recovery from his illness), could not help smirking slightly as he saw them. Often he was tempted to take Edmund aside and simply point out the truth to him, but only a fear that his brother's perversity would cause this to simply lead him deeper into denial prevented him. For now he simply contented himself with watching and occasionally catching Susan's eye, for their amused glint spoke of the fact that she knew as well as he did, what Edmund didn't.

Even Lady Bertram had marked some shift in the relationship between her younger son and her niece, but where she would normally have protested, citing the reason that she simply could _not _do without Fanny, now she had Susan, who made almost as good a companion. In the generosity of her heart, she thought that if it must be so, it must; and if the young people could only wait until Susan had become versed in all the little duties Fanny had always performed for her, then it might not be so very bad a thing if she _did_ leave.

However, despite everyone around them consigning them to each other, it would take something more to cause Edmund to realise the fact that this was his wish too.

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It was not seeing her in a ballgown looking more lovely than he had ever seen her that did it. It was not seeing her in the plainest cotton dress and realising she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen that did it. It was not being in her presence that did it. It was having to suffer her absence.

For the past week he had been kept prisoner within Thornton Lacey by the torrential rain and howling winds, unable to join his thoughts which were firmly with Fanny at Mansfield Park. Why was it that he missed Fanny so much?

Easy. Life was dull without going for walks or rides with her. Life was dull without discussing books and poetry with her. Life was dull without having her dear face to look at. Life was dull without experiencing the glow of witnessing her quiet kindness towards everyone. Life was dull without her smiles and the rare brightness of her laughter.

The thought occurred to him that his life would be so much happier if he could simply keep Fanny with him always, here at Thornton Lacey. It was such a bother having to part in the evening. It would certainly be a great deal better if she could stay with him – then they need never part.

It took him very little time after that to realise that the circumstances he had been imagining as ideal sounded very much like marriage. And then he knew himself.

He knew himself to be hopelessly in love with his cousin. He knew his happiness to be dependent on her acceptance of him. He knew himself to be the blindest fool on the face of the planet, the most confounded idiot ever to deceive himself, the most inconsiderate blockhead ever to neglect the right woman for the wrong one.

The more he thought about it, the more he found in his conduct to reprove. Every part of his mind except for his love for Fanny, was abhorrent. To ignore what was under his nose, to misguidedly pursue Miss Crawford had been bad. But infinitely worse had been the crime of having neglected Fanny not only as the man who loved her, but also as her cousin and protector – where had he been when she had been ordered about by her unreasonable aunts to the point of illness? Where had he been when she had been languishing indoors for want of exercise? Letting Miss Crawford monopolize his attention, of course.

And then there was the matter of Mr. Crawford. At the time when Fanny had most needed his support, he had sided with the rest of his family and had urged her to accept the man. _Fool!_ To try to dispose of the loveliest and best of all creatures to such a shallow, treacherous man – how he would have lived to regret that decision if she had, due to his urging, accepted Crawford! For his eyes would have been opened eventually, both to Mary Crawford's true nature and to his own feelings for Fanny, and then he would have been unhappy indeed.

Fanny could never and would never marry Crawford now, but still – what advantage was that to him? Had he realised his own heart sooner, had he striven to be allowed the honour of Fanny's hand before she had met Mr. Crawford, he might now be happily married to her. It might not even have been very hard to make her love him; he knew she already held a warm, sisterly regard for him, and that she valued his friendship. In time he might have encouraged her to feel more. Now, due to his own blindness, Fanny had slipped out of his reach – she was in love with Crawford. He knew Fanny. While she was in love with another, senseless as it might seem to some, she would never accept him. And he had nobody else to blame but himself.

He made up his mind. He would be a friend to her. He would be there for her when she needed him. And if it took forever, he would wait for her to get over Crawford. Then, when she was ready, he would tell her of his love and leave his fate to her answer.

It was going to be hard to wait until then, he thought as he gazed listlessly out the window at the driving rain, with a sigh to trump any of the ones provoked by Mary Crawford.


	3. Worthy of the Name

**A/N:** Merry X-mas to everyone, and consider this as my present to you (a quick update, that is)!

Now onto chapter 3, in which Edmund experiences some angst – if you're reading this, _please_ review and make my day!

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_Chapter Three – Worthy of the Name_

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Being Fanny's friend was more difficult than Edmund had anticipated. With the consciousness of his feelings for her figuring prominently in his mind whenever he saw her or talked to her, it was difficult to prevent what was foremost in his thoughts finding its way out of his mouth. All it would take for his hopes to run wild was one smile, one look, one kind word; at these times he would dare to dream that against all odds she _did _care for him, but then the unwelcome wake-up call would always arrive in the observation that while she was all sweetness and kindness to him, so she was to _everyone_. There was nothing particular in her behaviour to him, and indeed, nothing different about how she treated him now compared with how she had treated him all the time they had known each other. If there was any difference, it was simply that she had grown both in wisdom and in confidence, more traits to add to her list of virtues.

It was torture to remain silent, and in the past several weeks often he'd begun to speak his mind only to fall suddenly silent and abruptly excuse himself before hurrying out of the room, Fanny's puzzled eyes following him.

Sometimes he'd imagine proposing to her. He'd go up to the East Room where he'd find her alone, and then he'd tell her he had something important to discuss with her. Without preamble he'd tell her that he loved her, and would try to persuade her to marry him, would try to persuade her that the sisterly regard she held for him could be nurtured into something more in time, would try to persuade her that she would forget Crawford eventually.

Fanny's answer varied depending on his mood. If he was despondent, she would give an impassioned refusal, citing her enduring love for Crawford as her reason. If his mood was marginally improved from this state of depression, her refusal would become gentle, and her reason would be that she loved him only as a brother. In this situation, he would persist in his attempts to win her hand. If he was feeling hopeful, he would hear from her the delightful statement that she would marry him. She would have gotten over her feelings for Crawford, and his own proposal would have awakened some little regard for _him_.

This last scenario was ironically the most painful of all, because he knew just how far from the realm of possibility it was.

The thought sometimes occurred to him, that perhaps he should go away for a while, distance himself from Mansfield Park. The more time he spent in Fanny's company, the more he suffered, for with every passing day his love for her grew, matched only by the strengthening of his conviction from all he saw and heard, that she would never accept him. He stayed anyway, for the only thing more painful than being near Fanny was _not_ being near Fanny; masochism seemed inevitable, so he might at least choose its degree.

His penchant for embracing pain was probably the best explanation for how he found himself outside the East Room now, his feet having taken him up there without his conscious awareness. Before he could stop himself, his hand had risen of its own accord and had knocked on the door.

'Come in,' she called softly, and he obeyed, mouth suddenly turning dry as he realised that this was exactly how every one of his imagined proposals began. Upon actually entering the room, he did not know whether he was more relieved or more disappointed to find that she was not alone, but was reading in the company of her sister Susan.

Perhaps it was for the best. 'What are you reading?' he asked her, congratulating himself on managing to get the words out coherently, or even at all, despite the lovely smile which had lit up her face at his entry, and had caused his insides to melt.

She held out the book to him, and he smiled to see that it was a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets. Out of all the times he had encountered her with a book in her hand, half of them it would be this one. He knew that she never tired of them, and could spend many happy hours half-reading, half-reciting the words which he knew she probably had entirely committed to memory long ago.

He cast his eye over the first few lines of the sonnet on the page she had been reading from, and his smile almost instantly faded. Sonnet 116. Although he knew it by heart simply by virtue of it being a favourite of Fanny's, he read the print anyway as if on purpose to torture himself.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove:_

_O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken_

He stopped reading, handing the book back to her abruptly, seating himself across from her with a sigh. This was dreadful – this was an idea which he had never considered. If she believed this, then his proposal was doomed in yet another way... _if _she believed it. At this thought he looked up at her, his eyes containing a tiny hint of hope. 'Do you agree with the sentiments of this sonnet?'

Fanny looked at him, seemingly surprised at the question. 'Of course I do,' she said. 'It describes the only kind of love worthy of the name.'

The next moment she looked almost alarmed at the anguish that passed across his features. 'Are you well, cousin?' She raised her hand to lay it against his forehead, feeling for a temperature.

He tried to dispel her fears as coherently as he could, which was difficult when he was so intensely aware of the feel of her cool hand against his flushed skin. Although insisting that he was perfectly alright, he was in fact the opposite.

He was too disturbed even to register the movement of Susan quietly and tactfully getting up and leaving the room with a murmured excuse about going to Lady Bertram, or to notice her knowing look. His thoughts were too much occupied with what he had just heard.

Would the woman who professed such a strong belief in a love which did not alter ever be prevailed upon to accept the man who had so blindly deluded himself into an idle infatuation with another? How could she ever reward such fickleness with her hand? Although Edmund had long since realised that he had never been at all in love with the real Miss Crawford; he had simply imagined himself attached to an image of her he had created himself. Even at the height of his blind folly, Fanny's good opinion and Fanny's thoughts had been infinitely the most important to him of the two. He could never have really loved someone for whose behaviour he'd constantly had to make excuses; with Fanny there was no need for justification, as her only perceivable fault was perhaps a tendency to let others underrate her worth.

Could she see into his heart, he was sure she would be able to see that there had never been anyone he had loved more than her, and that there never would be. But how on earth was he to show her this? He would have to express it in words, and his talent for those seemed to have deserted him of late.

He tried anyway. 'Do you not think that a person might love again?' He looked at her earnestly.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, but then she shook her head resolutely. 'I do not think so – a woman would not, at least. A man might, though.' She paused then, as if considering. 'But then perhaps the affection that can be transferred so easily does not deserve to be called love in the first place.' Her voice was not cold or angry; it merely sounded contemplative, and he might have passed over it had she not been meeting his eyes the whole time.

He felt as if he'd been slapped, and he felt positive bodily pain with the violent headache which he could feel beginning. There was no mistaking such a pointed remark; she must have discerned his feelings for her, and now she had made it abundantly clear to him where he stood. Fool that he was, he had dared to hope that she might reward his inconstancy with her hand. How he regretted it – he regretted not that his infatuation with Miss Crawford had ceased, but that it had ever happened at all. Had he been more penetrating, had he been able to see clearly, had he been able to avoid being fooled by appearances, he might now have had some chance with Fanny.

'I see,' he said quietly. 'Yes, I quite understand.' He bit his lip, and for a long moment there was silence.

He saw her brow crease slightly, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he rose hastily and cut her off. Bowing stiffly in the formal ritual he had never performed with her since they had been introduced as children, he hurriedly left the room, unable to bear hearing her rejection made more plain than it had been already.


	4. Advice

**A/N: **Happy New Year, everyone! Hope you like this chapter. Now for some emotional blackmail – my birthday's coming up in a few days (I'm not joking, it really is), and the best present I could get would be reviews from everyone who's reading this. Would love to hear from any and all of you!

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_Chapter Four – Advice_

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Time did not lessen Edmund's pain and anguish, and for the next few weeks after his disastrous conversation with Fanny, he avoided Mansfield Park for the most part, spending a large portion of his time alone at Thornton Lacey. His excuse had been that as Christmas was fast approaching, his duties in the parish had increased, and to some extent it was true. He found himself busier than usual, but was distracted through it all. Had Fanny at this time been his betrothed, he would have found no difficulty in being a frequent visitor at Mansfield – but as matters stood, he had determined it best to avoid the place.

And yet... and yet on the occasions that he _had_ gone there, she had seemed so delighted to see him, had seemed to take such pleasure in his company, the more for its being rarer. He had been confused, agitated and even hopeful, before her behaviour became clear to him. She might not ever be able to love him, might not ever be persuaded to marry him, but she valued his friendship, and still had a sort of habitual regard for him which made her sorry to be deprived of his company.

He relented on his self-imposed exile and was once more frequently at Mansfield. Such smiles, and such conversation were not to be resisted. Even if being with Fanny was painful in one sense due to the knowledge that her affections were forever beyond his reach, in every other sense it was everything that he could ever want. He would take whatever he could get; if friendship was all she could offer, then so be it. He would be her friend, and would love her quietly.

He would watch her quiet interaction with his family, would observe with pleasure their increasing dependence on her company and her judgment, would observe the soft glow of the firelight on her hair, would observe the light in her eyes as she perused that accursed book of sonnets once more, would appreciate the slender curve of her–

'Edmund?' He started, and dragged his gaze away from Fanny to see his father observing him with something suspiciously like amusement in his eyes. 'May I have a word with you, in private?'

He nodded dumbly, too preoccupied to ponder the reason, silently following his father to his study. Had he had a thought to spare to what his father might want with him, he might have predicted it to be something about the parish, or perhaps a request for advice about how to deal with the matter of Maria and Crawford, whose affair though ended, still had not died down as a subject of gossip. The last thing he expected was a discussion of Fanny.

For some time, Sir Thomas expounded her virtues, and Edmund could only silently agree, at a loss as to why he was hearing this. Finally his father looked at him, with an expression that could only be called wistful. 'There's a girl who's made her way to my heart, sure enough.' He paused. 'Nothing would please me more than to be able to call her my daughter.'

Edmund turned away for a moment to compose his features. His father misunderstood the action, and stepped around to face him once more, his expression now beseeching. 'I'm not saying you should marry her right away, Edmund; but consider it – accustom yourself to the idea. Don't you think you could love her if you tried?'

He laughed bitterly. If only that were the problem. 'There's no call for _that_,' he said finally. 'That's already done, but it's too late – she's as good as told me so.' He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. 'She would never have me.'

His father's eyes widened. 'Did she refuse you?'

He shook his head slowly. 'I didn't ask her outright – but from something she said, I know... she could never...' He swallowed hard. 'I have only myself to blame.'

Sir Thomas said no more for a time, but simply placed a bracing hand on Edmund's shoulder. Presently he spoke again. 'If you were to take my advice, I would say you should ask her.' As Edmund's mouth opened in protest, he cut him off. 'If she refuses you, wait awhile, then ask again. Show her that you are constant, and you might eventually win her.' Edmund slowly nodded, processing this advice.

Leaving him standing as if glued to the spot, his father began to make his way out. At the doorway, he turned. 'Don't let her slip through your fingers for want of courage, Edmund,' he said. 'Do anything but that.'

* * *

'I can't believe I'm saying this, but I need your advice.' Edmund stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. Try as he might, he couldn't prevent himself from squirming a little under his older brother's smirk and incredulous raised eyebrow.

'_My_ advice?' Tom's grin widened. 'I never thought this day would come – the day you _ask _me for advice instead of ramming it down my throat!'

Edmund tried not to roll his eyes as he sat. 'Please, be serious, Tom.' He sighed heavily as he sat. 'I need to know how to ask Fanny to marry me.'

Tom laughed outright. 'And you think I'm experienced in the phrasing of such a question? If you would marry her first and _then _come to me for advice, I could be of a little more help – stay!' For Edmund, with a noise of disgust, had risen to leave. 'Alright, I'll help you.' He quickly composed his features to hide any hint of amusement.

Edmund sat again, rather unwillingly. Tom had been his last resort as a port of advice, but he really did not know who else to ask. Rather to his surprise, under Tom's more serious expression of sympathy, he found himself confessing his fears. 'I have no idea what to say to her.' He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. 'Knowing me, even if I _did _have any chance with her, I'd find some way to ruin it.'

Tom looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he began to speak. 'You know Shakespeare?' Edmund nodded. 'Fanny loves to read him – all women seem to love the man. Why?'

Edmund looked mystified. 'Because his works are insightful, original and well-written?'

Tom looked ready to give up on him. 'Because he's a romantic. He writes about love, beauty and lovely weather as if that's all he thinks about.' This was a sentiment which Edmund did not entirely agree with, but he was in no position to argue, so he said nothing. 'I'm not saying,' continued Tom, 'that you should recite poetry at her. No, the wording should be all your own – but you should try to get the essence of Shakespeare's romanticism in your proposal.'

Edmund opened his mouth to speak, but Tom cut him off. 'How, you ask?' He grinned as Edmund shut his mouth again. 'Easy – what do you love most about Fanny?'

Edmund didn't have to think. 'Her kindness towards everybody, her infallible moral standards, her keen intelligence, her sound judgement –'

Tom gave a long-suffering sigh. 'Edmund, no. That's all wrong – _this_ is why you need my help. Fanny's beauty should be the thing upon which you first wax eloquent. In your mind you should list each feature: eyes, mouth, nose, ears, complexion, hair... you understand? And then find something romantic to say about each.'

Edmund nodded, trying to store all this in memory. 'And then what?'

'And then, you should tell her you love her,' Tom said. Edmund began to feel that this proposal business might actually be doable after all; at least this piece of advice seemed to be something he could see himself putting into practice. But then as Tom continued, his conviction of his own ignorance in such matters strengthened. 'But don't say it just like that. You should compare your love for her to other things.'

'Other things?' Edmund had not felt this stupid since studying Latin grammar at school, years ago.

Tom rolled his eyes and then began to explain slowly as if to a child. 'You know, for example: "I love you like Aunt Norris loves money" or "I love you like Yates loves acting".'

Edmund observed his brother through narrowed eyes for a moment, but Tom's expression gave nothing away. He looked completely serious. 'And then what?'

'You ask her to marry you, of course! But –' Edmund cringed. He knew there had to be a 'but'; so far this proposal business seemed nothing if not complicated. '– don't say something boring like "Will you marry me" or "Will you be my wife". You've got to be more creative than that – set yourself apart from the others. Be original.'

Edmund only just prevented himself from crying out in frustration. '_How_?' he managed through gritted teeth.

'Well, you could say something like "When I die, will you be my widow?" or – my personal favourite – "Will you give me the right to divorce you if you run off with Crawford too?"'

There was a long silence.

'Any questions?' Tom asked innocently, after a few minutes had passed in this manner. Edmund shook his head silently, and then head spinning with all this brotherly advice, he turned and left the room.

As soon as his brother was out of hearing range, Tom slumped over his desk, breathless with laughter. He loved Edmund and Fanny, and wanted nothing more than for the two of them to finally get together. But he loved his fun as well, and the opportunity had been too good to resist. Of course he never would have done it unless he were almost certain that Fanny would accept Edmund no matter how pathetic his proposal was.


	5. The Ever Fixed Mark

**A/N:** Yay, this story is finished! It was so much fun to write, and strangely satisfying to torture poor Edmund. I think I feel that in order to deserve Fanny, he has to go through some suffering, angst and self-doubt himself.

Anyway – I've finally put him out of his misery in this chapter; I hope it's satisfying to read after the build-up! Please tell me your thoughts by reviewing.

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_Chapter Five – The Ever-Fixed Mark_

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Now the challenge was to get Fanny alone, so that he could try his luck. This for some reason was proving to be difficult. In Edmund's memory countless private conversations in the East Room, walks in the shrubbery and rides in the countryside stood out in his mind, but all of them seemed impossible to contrive now.

Over the next few days, whenever he sought Fanny out she seemed to be either sitting with Lady Bertram, instructing her sister in reading or sewing, or sitting in the midst of the entire family. He did not wish to draw attention to himself by publicly requesting a private audience with her, but if events did not prove more favourable soon, that would be his only option.

He was sitting in the drawing room with the rest of the family now, unable to concentrate on his book. His mind kept running through various ideas, and he was constantly alert for any opportunities which might come his way. Fanny was sitting by Lady Bertram, quietly reading aloud to her, and seemed entirely settled. For a moment he sighed dejectedly, but then an idea struck him.

Carefully, so as not to attract her notice, he stowed his book under the seat cushion and reached for the newspaper at the side table. After a few minutes of pretending to read it, he made a show of folding it up again. 'I forgot my book at Thornton Lacey this morning,' he announced to the room in general. 'I think I'll ride over and get it.'

Fanny had looked up at him as he spoke, and seeing that he had her attention, he said as casually as he could manage, 'Fanny, do you want to ride over with me? I'd like your company and I know you haven't had your morning ride yet.'

His heart skipped a beat at the expression of delight which lit up her face – delight at the prospect of exercise after sitting so long, he reminded himself, sternly checking his hopes. He would have done just as well had he not reprimanded himself; for Fanny's delight had been at his words – not 'I'd like _some _company', but 'I'd like _your_ company'. Edmund wished for _her_ to accompany him; not anybody else.

When two young people want so much to go for a ride, they cannot take long to get ready, and so it was that not ten minutes later, Edmund and Fanny were leading their horses out of the stables.

Later as he rode alongside her, Edmund kept darting increasingly tortured looks at her. He would have to say _something_; he had to make a beginning soon, or they would be all the way there and back without any progress made. What had Tom instructed him to say first? Something... something in praise of her beauty. 'Your ears!' he blurted out, before his brain had time to catch up with his mouth. 'I just noticed, Fanny, how... elegant your ears are.' The moment it was out, his face burned and he inwardly kicked himself.

For a moment she looked astonished, but then she began to laugh. 'All the better to hear you with, I suppose?' she said, smiling. Deep down inside, a tiny, detached part of Edmund appreciated the hilarity of the moment and was actually a little amused, but a far greater part of him cringed inwardly. This was not going well at all. He would have to begin again.

Accordingly, he opened his mouth to do so, but was interrupted by a rumble of thunder. They both had just time to look up at the threatening grey sky above them before it broke and rain began to fall. At first it was only a drop here and there, dotting the landscape, but then it began to fall heavily, enough to flatten their hair to their heads and find its way down their necks and into their shoes.

Dismounting hastily from their horses, they both hurried to the nearest shelter of a large oak tree, whose boughs, even though leafless, would still provide some semblance of protection from the weather until it grew fine enough for them to continue with their journey.

Looking over at Fanny, Edmund was just in time to observe her shiver at the brisk wind on her damp clothes. He could have kicked himself. Immediately he removed his thick overcoat to drape it about her small form. He could do very well without it, if it could prevent Fanny from falling ill due to his carelessness. 'I'm so sorry, Fanny,' he said, taking her small hands into his larger ones to chafe them and give them some of his warmth. 'I should have thought to bring an umbrella.'

He could hardly bear to hear her declamations of any blame on his side and her gratitude at his giving up his coat. Fanny always felt these things a great deal too much; it was his duty to take care of her, and he should not need thanks from her to do it. It only made him feel worse as he recalled all the times in the past year when he had neglected doing it, had neglected _her_.

After a time, they both fell silent and simply observed the rain which was pelting heavily around them. Edmund had not relinquished her hands from his, and his mind was racing trying to come up with a way of suggesting that they embrace for warmth without breaching propriety, when Fanny spoke, her voice soft. 'This makes me think of the tempest in Sonnet 116. I'm sure this is what it would look like if it were not metaphorical.' She sighed, her gaze distant. 'Imagine the love that could weather something like this.'

He froze. _That_ sonnet again. That sonnet about enduring, un-altering love, the love which looked unshaken upon all tempests. The love she held for Crawford; the love to which his own love presented so feeble a comparison – or at least would in her eyes. 'Oh Fanny!' he couldn't help crying out, his grip on her hands involuntarily tightening. 'Is that love so essential to you? Is a foolish mistake, is my blindness, is my misguided infatuation to ruin my chances forever?'

She stiffened and her gaze snapped up to meet his, her eyes wide. A flush began to slowly creep up her neck, and even though from these signs he could tell she was beginning to feel uncomfortable, he could not stop himself. Hating himself, he ploughed on, all Tom's advice forgotten. 'I've loved you for as long as I can remember, and even when I deluded myself into thinking I loved Mary Crawford, I acknowledged your superiority of judgement, of manners, of taste.'

The expression of his eyes was so earnest that it almost overpowered her. Beginning to tremble from something that was most definitely not the cold, all Fanny could do was listen and hope against hope that she was not about to be awakened from the happiest of dreams.

'For many months now I have known my own heart,' Edmund continued, his thumbs absently chafing the smooth skin of her hands, 'and I can truly say that if you could ever forgive my stupidity, if you could ever love me as more than a cousin or a brother–' he took a rather shaky breath– 'if you could ever agree to marry me, then that would be a happiness which no description could reach.'

As he waited for her response, Edmund felt a curious sensation of simultaneous stress and peace. His every fibre was straining under the suspense of waiting for her answer, but at the same time it was as if a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders. His secret was out, and now it was her turn to say something. The relief of this was greater than could be described, at least until she burst into tears.

His heart sank until it had settled somewhere around his navel, and he nodded twice in an attempt to force the understanding of the moment on himself. He squeezed her hands, and tried to smile. 'Dear Fanny,' he said gently, 'it's alright. Don't cry; don't be upset. I understand. I do. I'll always be your friend; we need never mention this again.' He bit his lip for a moment, not trusting himself to say more, and then with a heavy sigh he began to extricate his hands from hers.

He had never been more surprised in his life than when he felt her fingers clutching his, not letting him go. 'No, that's not what I meant,' she whispered, and then his heart leapt as she sobbed, 'Of course I'll marry you, Edmund!'

For a moment he stood numb, uncomprehending, unable to quite believe his ears, but then the next second she rested her head against his chest, still trembling; and as his arms came around her he couldn't help laughing joyfully. 'You will? Even after all you said about –' Suddenly he frowned, and drew away from her slightly so that he could look down into her face. 'Even after all you said about the love that could alter not deserving the name?'

She looked confused for a moment, but then she suddenly smiled, rather wryly. 'I was thinking of Mr. Crawford,' she said, 'flitting back and forth from Julia to Maria, to me and then back again. You didn't think I was referring to –'

Edmund laughed in sheer relief. 'Me?' he said, smiling. 'Yes, I most certainly did – and it has been the cause of many a sleepless night, I can tell you. I was convinced that since you believed so strongly in the love that couldn't be transferred, you would never accept me.'

Fanny smiled up at him so tenderly that he could not have predicted the sudden plummet of his happiness which accompanied her next words. 'I was thinking of my own first attachment when I said that,' she admitted softly.

She looked puzzled and hurt as he abruptly broke out of their embrace and turned away. 'What's the matter, Edmund?' she asked, worried by his behaviour. Suddenly the thought struck her that perhaps he regretted what he had said, and her eyes began to sting with the promise of tears. 'What's wrong?'

He turned back to face her, and he could have kissed her when he saw the sweet concern so artlessly etched in all her features. But no matter how much he wanted to, he could not do it. He had not the right. 'Oh Fanny,' he sighed, and despite all his notions of honour and propriety, he could not prevent his hand from reaching up to cradle her face. 'I do love you so, but I would not want you to accept me simply out of gratitude or a fear of hurting my feelings.' His thumb caressed her temple as he spoke. 'I know you must wish that you could love me, but I understand if you cannot help remaining true to your first attachment.' He sighed in defeat, his shoulders slumped. 'Mr. Crawford was a fool to throw away such love as yours.'

Her brow creased in a frown. 'Mr. Crawford? What has _he _got to do with anything?' She sounded as close to frustrated as he had ever heard her. He met her eyes, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. She continued, her voice more firm than he had ever heard it, 'Edmund Bertram, listen to me, and listen well. I love _you._ You are my first and only love. I have no idea exactly how long I have been in love with you, but it was certainly long before the Crawfords arrived.' She smiled then, a beautiful, beatific smile, and even with her eyes filling with tears, she managed to incorporate a sense of mischief in her words. 'You are the only man in the world whom I could ever think of as a husband – hence my acceptance of your proposal.'

He thought he might die of happiness. He could only manage to raggedly choke out her name once before he dispensed with words altogether and instead covered her mouth with his own.

And as the tempest raged around them, they were unshaken to the point of forgetting about its existence.

**

* * *

**

**THE END**


End file.
